


Friendship By Any Other Name (Is Sorta Something More)

by orphan_account



Series: What's A Four-Letter Word That Means Family? [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Characters, Fluff, Gen, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sibling Bonding, Skype dates, google translate french
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillip struggles to balance the Lafayette's impending visit with his growing feeling towards George Lafayette, the Marquis son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendship By Any Other Name (Is Sorta Something More)

**Author's Note:**

> Some liberties taken with ages as to make it not-kinda-creepy. See the end for translations.

The tickets had long been purchased, the plans had been set and Phillip had spent a solid two weeks making sure he was in front of his laptop at exactly 11pm nearly every other night. Freshly showered (since showering at night was the only way to beat the morning rush for hot water) with his hair tied back to fight the curl he was sure to get come morning, he would wait for the familiar ping of his Skype notification to alert him of a message.

Idly scrolling through Twitter, retweeting and liking some of his fathers posts in the process, to fight his constantly jiggling leg—Phillip was having a seriously hard time not letting his eyes flicker to the clock in the upper right-hand side of his screen. eleven-fifteen. Okay, he’d been later.

A few more tweets cropped up. eleven-thirty-one. He felt his stomach sinking just a little bit, George was never this late to their totally-not-a-date-Skype-dates.

He double-checked that he wasn’t on do-not-disturb or accidentally flicked offline before he finally gathered up all of his nerves to send a message himself.

 

[23:33] **PhilH:** yo, man where you at?                                                  
[23:33] **PhilH:** geooooorge, you still asleep bruh??                            

 

It kinda made him feel squeamish, a little like his chest was aching for something he didn’t actually have yet. Sure maybe he was sorta on the edge of telling George how he felt—but that would wait until after the holidays so a potential rejection wouldn’t ruin the gathering they’d worked so hard to get.

Although his dad was sure it wouldn’t be a rejection, so much so that Phillip was pretty much 100% convinced his dad was trying to set him up now. And he was 100% sure Lafayette was helping him. His mom had patted his shoulder when he accused his father of meddling over a dinner one night and just said, “Well, they were always awful close. You can’t blame them for hoping.”

Devious. Absolutely devious.

Hell, Phillip didn’t even know if George was into guys at all—like, at all, at all. He tried to argue that point with his dad and the only response the legendarily-wordy Alexander Hamilton gave was, “He’s French, I wouldn’t worry," without even sparing a glance up from the writing he was doing.

After that Phillip couldn’t explain his rising tides of fear—maybe it was because of the distance. An entire ocean away wasn’t exactly ideal for relationship-building, especially when you're pretty sure there's going to be no relationship, sure he’d done some sort of long-distance before (if a summer away for three weeks counted for anything, which he was sure it didn’t), but nothing to this scale. Nothing really this intense, nothing like from New York to _France._

He was just about to give up for the night, shut his laptop and let George sleep in, when it finally pinged. 

[00:09] **GWL:** sorry mon ami, we had a small problem               
[00:09] **GWL:** and by we I mean me                                            
[00:09 **]GWL:** and by me I mean my father                                
[00:10] **GWL:** actually how about I call you?                             
[00:11] **PhillH:** that’s literally what im here for, gwash            

He plugged his headphones into his laptop just in time for the loud ringing to sound from it, signifying the incoming call. Fumbling for the earbuds, he clicked ‘answer with video’ before it could vanish.

“One sec,” he called, hoping the microphone would pick it up as he tried to untangle the stubborn wires too. From the grainy footage filling his screen, George watched on with a pretty amused expression. His hair was mussed from sleep still, the light from somewhere illuminating him and his perfect and _very bare_ skin. The sun wouldn’t be up for a few more hours in France, even with the decisive time change. It was just past midnight in New York, which meant it was hardly six in the morning for him.

George was used to getting up at borderline obnoxious hours (even if Phillip suspected sometimes he did it just to talk to him), and most of the time, all he did was drag his laptop in bed with him so he didn’t have to drag himself out quite yet.

And if Phillip was being honest, he liked the view a little too much. A faint trace of dark stubble across his jaw-line that would be gone by his morning shave, the way his eyes were still sorta hazy with sleep but his smile always managed to reach them. And he knew he slept shirtless but it made him wonder if he slept without--

“Okay,” he cut off his thought process there, firmly replacing his headphones. “So, spill, what’s got the mighty Marquis’s panties in a twist?”

“Récemment, ce qui ne fonctionne pas?” Phillip could fucking _melt_. He only caught half of what George had sighed but the moment he slipped into French, it was game over.

Still, he had to focus. His friend was having problems and Phillip’s straining heart could take a breather on his behalf. “I got… _recently_ and _not_ from that, Angie’s the one who’s good at French, G-Wash.”

He got a nose-wrinkle in return for the nickname and, wow, remember what he said about his heart taking a walk? C’mon Phillip, access some brain-power here! “I said, _recently_ , _what_ _doesn’t_. He’s on edge about everything lately, keeps trying to get me to remove to an American school.”

“Really? Like… where?” Phillip had long since gotten used to George’s slip-ups, he figured if he could butcher French without commentary, George was allowed to go un-mocked for his nearly on-point English he had despite the fact that he’d only been to the states twice.

George shrugged, eyes flickering off camera for a moment, he just nodded to something Phillip couldn’t see. “Sorry, mon père was asking me if it was you I was speaking to.”

Phillip bristled a little at that, he was pretty sure Laf was composing a nice, long message to send Phillip’s father now.

Although, it was George who ducked his head as his father got close enough to the computer for the microphone to pick up what he was saying the background, “Une raison particulière que vous êtes torse nu? S'il vous plaît me dire qu'il est pas nue, qui peuvent attendre Décembre.”

George looked like he was going to choke on the air around him for a moment, “Non!” His dark eyes bugged for a second, and then he promptly buried his head in his arms—all that was visible to the camera being his messy black curls.

“Il est bien, votre mère ne vous attendez pas à des petits-enfants de toute façon.”

“Il peut vous entendre!” There was a hanging moment of silence on the other end, before Laf’s familiar—if slightly tinny—wasn’t as lost on Phillip as the rapid-fire French was. He was normally good at French. Normally. All he could pick up from the back and forth was something about someone not being naked and another thing about grandkids.

“Do… do I need to get a translator because Angie’s asleep and I’m pretty sure my dad’s busy right now.”

George finally looked up, his expression pained for a moment before he shook his head, “No, no! You do not need to know what he said. Trust me, it was rather… _rude_.” George shot a glare over the top of his laptop,presumably directed at his father, before returning a warm smile to the camera.

“But now he is gone. And no, I don't know where he plans on having me go, yet.”

“Where are you Skyping from anyway?” The background didn’t look much like George’s room from what he’d seen, but granted Phillip wasn’t always paying attention the scenery when George was around.

“Living room. It was rather warm in my room so I moved out here.” He had that tone of voice that also meant it was meant in part to annoy his father—a trick which seemed to backfire on the both of them as Phillip picked up on some badly-muffled laughter coming from the end of the hall in his own house.

Ugh. Whatever Lafayette said that embarrassed George had managed to succeed in embarrassing him too, from three-thousand, six-hundred and eighty-nine miles away no less.

Impressive range to be honest, he sunk down lower in his chair, totally aware of the rather un-attractive angle it was getting on his webcam.

“You alright, mon ami? You look a little… er… in the dumps.”

“Hm?” Phillip looked back up at George’s face filling up his screen. It wobbled a bit as the Frenchman moved backwards, “I’m fine. You know, man, I seriously can’t wait for December! You haven’t been to New York in like, eight years! We’re gonna have a killer time.”

“Promise?”

“Of course! And wow, dude did you see the video I sent you? Tell me that wasn’t the most flawless takedown of bullshit you’ve ever seen?”

George perked up a bit, his grin turning wider.

They continued along that path for another hour or so, until Lafayette appeared again to spur his son into action to get ready for the day ahead. He leaned over the top of the screen, finally coming into view, “and you, petit lionceau, should be sleeping. Don’t make me call your father back.”

“Just call mom, pretty sure he promised to be asleep by one tonight, and we both know it was bull.”

George just waved, pausing like he was going to say something else before muttering a soft, “good night,” to match Phillip’s, “good morning.”

He always felt a little emptier whenever the screen when black, his chest feeling hollowed out and his skin feeling cold. He sighed and pushed himself up, his exhaustion hitting him hard the moment the blood rushed to his legs again. He dragged himself to bed, not even bothering to wriggle himself under his duvet before fully and wholly crashing into unconsciousness.

* * *

There was a particular sensation, where time feels like it managed to pass all at once instead of day by day like it was supposed to. It usually comes full-force in the face when you wake up in the morning, suddenly nearly an entire month has passed you by and you’re left wondering exactly what the everloving fuck just happened and where most of November and half of December went.

Not totally unlike being woken up to a dust-rag landing on your face and your mother standing over you with her arms crossed and her dark eyes narrowed.

Or at least, that’s what Phillip thought. He groaned, wincing against the sunlight pouring into his room and hardly managing a confused croak before she started speaking.

“You said you would be up by eight to help me finish cleaning.”

Buffering. Phillip was trying his absolute damndest to comprehend the numbers on his bedside clock.

Ten-forty-five.

“If the rag didn’t work I was going to unleash your brothers with a tray of ice,” she said matter-of-factly once he finally sat up, guilt festering just a little bit in his stomach. He really did promise to be up early—ever the dutiful son. Especially since they’d recently been revealed that his mother was pregnant (again!) and his dad doing a last-minute interview to defend his latest Twitter-Outburst against James Madison and Vice-President John Adams.

After the last three kids (and two political near-disasters) Phillip learned how to stay on the good side of her mood-swings.

And it sure as hell wasn’t by waking up late. “Sorry, mom,” he said with a sympathetic little smile—knowing it would make her anger melt away. It worked, and she just sighed, ruffling his hair and kissing the top of his head lightly. “There’s coffee I can’t drink downstairs. Get yourself a cup then get busy.”

He nodded and gave her a mock salute as she backed out of the room. He was halfway through pulling on a pair of jeans when it hit him like a cold-water spray. It felt like it was just last night he was falling asleep Skyping George, or crying in his dad’s office trying to choke out the fact that he was bisexual.

It was mid-December.

The Lafayette’s were arriving that night.

If anyone in the house heard the loud ‘thump’ of his heart hitting the floor, they didn’t say anything.

Of all things he could hold against his father, in terms of playful spite, the fact that he was taller than him by a solid two inches would always be Phillip’s favorite. He got the height from his mothers side, although it was all mostly in the long legs he used to sprint down the stairs and practically skid into the kitchen to gulp down a cup of coffee (black with enough sugar to give a small horse diabetes). The Lafayette’s were coming.

Adrianne, who he was sure his mother was ecstatic to see again. Please-Don’t-Ever-Call-Me-Gilbert-Lafayette… and George.

Phillip had that vomit-y feeling again. Like he was super close to puking and he really hope he didn’t. This kitchen was pretty freshly cleaned.

He moved fast when he had a mission, dusting down the pictures in the living room, all the little nick-nacks collected from dignitaries and royalty and politicians throughout the years. He, as he always did, took care with those. Making sure not to scratch up gifts from the Washington’s especially as he made sure all the wreaths and garland were in place. Gifts dotted the underside of a massive tree that stood proud in the corner of the room, a mess of mis-matched ornaments decorating each branch. He thought it used to have a color scheme once, when he was younger, but kindergarten classes and home-made ornaments slowly and surely took over where order once was. Now it was like a collage of… something. If Phillip tried he was pretty sure he could pick out a picture of him when he was six on that tree.

Angie helped here and there, and he couldn’t help but note the excitement she seemed to be radiating as well. Just a few years younger than Phillip, Angie was far more reserved and quiet—preferring more to take up their father’s adeptness for languages instead of public speaking. He knew why she was excited too; she was particularly good at French. It was strange to see her out of her room much, though. When they were younger their close age made them the best of friends, but as time went on Angie drew more and more back into herself. It hurt to watch sometimes.

But all that pain seemed to erase itself as she playfully hip-checked Phillip into a doorframe, her lips curved into the same mischievous grin she had when she “accidentally” pushed him—fully clothed—into a pool in the very late (and cold) fall.

“Angie,” he warned, his tone too playful to be threatening. She dropped the smile and instead her eyes went wide—way too innocent for the little devil underneath.

“What is it, my dearest brother?”

He squinted. “Three… two…” She took off towards the dining room with a muffled squeal of delight--not even waiting for one before Phillip gave chase. For a moment he could forget, forget he was brinking on turning eighteen, forget college applications, forget love-life teen angst and slide across the kitchen’s tiled floor in just his socks—not really having a plan for revenge in mind when he finally caught his sister.

They were never totally malicious, maybe a little intense sometimes (he did get her back for the pool by methodically sorting out her laundry when it was his turn to do it all—and then promptly freezing it.). Luckily James and Alex Jr. where a little too young for the teenager’s games (even if Alex. Jr was rapidly approaching fourteen).

“Well, glad to see you two diligently helping your mother,” came a very amused, if slightly tired, voice from the doorway. Phillip froze where he was about to grab hold of Angie’s arm, his cheeks a little pink from laughter and running—she froze too, ducking her head.

“Hey, dad,” Angie perked back up a bit once she saw him, watching him shake off the fine dusting of snow from his jacket before hanging it up beside the door. “How was the interview?”

“Some people don’t quite get the point of Twitter.”

Phillip snorted, “I don’t think it was created for the sole purpose of being able to publically slam government figures.”

His dad pointed but there was no threat in it, “You sound like your mother.” He accused, untying a scarf from his neck before stripping off an under-layer of jacket as well.

He got cold easily, he would complain, constantly layering layer upon layer before even getting close to braving anything below thirty-six degrees. Phillip once found it funny, but on a visit to somewhere with a climate just close to _approaching_ where his dad was born—he immediately shut up. He’d never sweat that much in his life.

“Is that a bad thing?” He asked, glancing around to find where he’d dropped his dust-rag before he’d given up cleaning to take his sister down instead.

“Not at all,” his father conceded, “and everyone’s favorite family of Frenchmen—and woman—are all on time still, they should get in around seven.”

Phillip checked the clock on his phone. It was two-twenty.

That gave him four hours to stop the heart-attack he was bound to have once he saw George face-to-face again.

“Try not to puke there, kiddo, your mom worked so hard.” His dad gave him that look, the ‘I know you think you’re gonna die but there are so many worse things that could be happening right now’ look. Phillip _hated_ that look.

He ruffled his son’s hair, gave his daughter a quick hug before deciding to ruin her hair with a ruffle as well. She swatted at his hands in protest, but the rare grin was back on her face.

“Speaking of deadlines and puking, however, I better check in on your mother.”

Phillip pulled a face before deciding to actually get close to finishing his to-do list so he wasn’t pressed down to the wire with things to do.

He was still pressed down to the wire with things to do, with his dad already en-route to the airport and the Lafayette’s getting ready to land, and Phillip was two seconds away from just collapsing into a screaming puddle. He had already made a last-minute grocery run for his mother, picked up James from a friend’s house (where he couldn’t mess anything up just yet) and did another touching-up round around the house. And he hadn’t even changed out of the tee-shirt he’d thrown on when he woke up.

He sorta hoped to wear something… better… when George arrived. Button down? Too nice. Ratted old shirt that was kinda dusty and had coffee on it? Not nice enough. In the few minutes he had to spare he was staring at his closet, hopelessly drawing a blank.

Finally, he cracked, he gave in.

“Angelica!” He called out his bedroom door, hoping it would summon his sister sorta how it was supposed to summon Voldemort. He held his tongue against mentioning how it worked when she appeared in his doorway, already changed into something better than the same pattern of shirt-and-jeans she was helping cook and clean in.

“Yes?”

“I need your help, I sorta wanna look nice when the Lafayette’s get here and it’s sorta like…”

“You wanna look nice for George you mean?” She asked, nudging past him to get to his closet. She didn’t even bother waiting for a response, “I mean, we all know you’re super gay for him, like _super_ gay for him. And I don’t blame you, he’s like a walking eighteen-year-old version of his dad and remember the one time my friends came to visit when Lafayette was in town on business?” Oh yeah. Angie’s small group of friends wouldn’t shut up about him for weeks afterwards.

“Point well made.” He stated evenly, “And I’m not gay.”

She made a non-committal noise as she tossed him a collared shirt and a sweater. “These’ll make you look exceedingly non-heterosexual.”

“Thanks? I think.” He said, brow furrowing as he tried to work out of that was a good thing or not.

Angie shrugged it off, “De rien. Don’t mess this up.”

That one he knew. Don’t mention it. She clicked the door shut behind her and he was fast to change into the outfit she’d picked out and okay… she was right.

His loose and dark jeans with a blue shirt under a dark grey sweater. Damn. He even tried to fix up his hair in the mirror that hung on the back of his closet door—eventually giving up as the ringlets refused to cooperate and instead sprung up and defied gravity around his cheeks instead.

He was about to leave the room when he heard the tell-tale sounds of a car in the driveway. He froze.

Was it too late to change his mind?

Probably. He was slow to make his way towards the stairs, ending up standing just up at the top when the snow-dusted family shook their way through the front door. It was like watching something almost surreal.

Adrianne was the first to come through, greeting Angie warmly and giving the boys fast and hard hugs. She wrapped her arms delicately around Phillip’s mother before pressing a hand to her stomach, already rapidly discussing her pregnancy with the efficiency only two mothers could. Next flooded in his father and the eldest Lafayette, his arm slung around Alexander’s shoulders as the two passed commentary in brisk and smooth French. Although it dropped off as Angie excitedly welcomed him, “Monsieur Lafayette! Comment était votre vol?” Phillip couldn’t help but smile as he made his way downstairs.

“On dirait que quelqu'un a été pratiqué.,” he returned, dropping his arm from around Phillip’s fathers shoulders to give Angie a quick hug. It was hard to forget when she was just a kid it was Lafayette who would teach her small French phrases here and there—and now it was sort of like she was taking her chance to impress the best teacher she’d had.

Just like it was hard to forget that there was a third member of their party—the last one to come through. The one to close to door behind him, setting down the last of a fairly-large pile of bags by the door. Philip swallowed, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs nearly unnoticed as everyone else was catching up. The boys were asking for translations for whatever rude phrases they could get away with two feet from their dad, Angie was helping… all that was left was him and George.

“What was it like, seven hours?” He asked, kicking himself internally because come on? Really? A question about his _flight_?

George nodded after a second, “About seven hours, yeah, actually.”

Phillip shuffled his feet part of him wondering it was too late to go in for a welcoming hug? Would that be weird? No he did just watch Lafayette drop two kisses to his mother’s cheeks so he doubted a friendly hug between friends would be un-friendly at all.

“Here, uh,” he was still shorter than George was by quite a bit, having to lean up to give him a solid hug and wow… okay. Now he remembered why this was source of his bisexuality awakening. He was so warm, and even through the thick layers of sweaters he could feel the firmness of his body. He never wanted to let go. Nope. Let him die here, that was fine.

“It’s nice to see you again, you know, without a screen.” George muttered his mouth awfully close to Phillip’s ear.

“Yeah,” he responded, trying not to choke on air. “It’s nice to see you too.”

He held on for another second, trying not to think about what the sliver of resistance he felt pulling away meant, and instead focused on the fact that he was pretty sure dinner was ready by now.

“We should probably,” he coughed and tilted his head towards where everyone was starting to gather for dinner. George nodded, looking for a moment like there was something he hadn’t finished quite yet—but the look vanished after a moment.

Somewhere in the kitchen, Phillip was pretty sure he heard a sharp ‘thwack,’ and a distinctly French voice muttering that ‘someone owed him a twenty.’

With a family as large as the Hamilton’s one would have trouble believing him when he said that it was possible for dinners to get even more rowdy than they already were. But all you had to do was add three Lafayettes and suddenly it was like an explosion of raw energy. Conversations spilling in different languages that would inevitably crash back into a temporary English lull before flying back off into somewhere far beyond where Phillip could follow.

There were jokes of varying degrees of awfulness, swapped stories from Eliza about the time a twenty-year old Lafayette tried to pick up her married sister or when Alexander once fell off a boat into near-freezing waters and had to walk all the way back to their camp soaking wet.  

Phillip couldn’t think of times the entire house felt so alive, so abuzz with life, but he still couldn’t stop sneaking small glances over to where George was sitting—sometimes he even thought he caught him smiling over at him too.

The two youngest boys were left on dish-duty, leaving the (truly) exhausted families to find some sleep to fight the jet lag. George had a place made up in a guest bedroom, Phillip’s mother keeping good on her promise despite his assertions that _nothing was going to happen (and even If it did he’s an adult!)._ Okay that last part was plugged in, unhelpfully, by his father. But the point still stood.

Sorta. George was still in Phillip’s bedroom, sitting cross-legged on his bed as the two just talked about… well.. anything.

And soon sitting turned to lying and talking turned to listening to the steady clicks and crashes of whatever hurricane was destroying the kitchen this time.

And maybe --if Angie might’ve just snuck in to sneak a quick snapshot with her phone, she would forward the picture of her brother fast asleep with his head tucked under George’s chin and the Frenchmen’s arms locked tightly around his waist. Maybe.

Or maybe she’d keep it to herself, you know. For blackmail.

Or Phillip would wake up to find it as his lock-screen.

She hadn’t decided yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Sidenote: I am aware that the Lafayette's had like, three daughters (two that survived to adulthood) but for the sake of my sanity they're off somewhere else having a grand old time.  
> Also I did age down GWL because having him be three years older than Phillip is right now (17 and 20) is a little creepier than I would've liked it to be.
> 
> Google Translate French Translations:
> 
> Récemment, ce qui ne fonctionne pas? -- Recently, what doesn't?  
> mon père -- My father  
> Une raison particulière que vous êtes torse nu? S'il vous plaît me dire qu'il est pas nue, qui peuvent attendre Décembre. -- Any particular reason you're shirtless? Please tell me he's not naked, that can wait until December.  
> Non! -- No!  
> Il est bien, votre mère ne vous attendez pas à des petits-enfants de toute façon -- It's alright, your mother doesn't expect grandchildren anyway.  
> Il peut vous entendre! -- He can hear you!  
> petit lionceau -- little lion cub  
> De rien -- Don't mention it/You're welcome.  
> Monsieur Lafayette! Comment était votre vol? -- Mister Lafayette! How was your flight?  
> On dirait que quelqu'un a été pratiqué -- Looks like someone has been practicing.


End file.
